


Noted

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes written communication can be just as important as talking to each other face-to-face... An ongoing fic series based around notes B/G leave for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noted

**Noted**

* * *

Scanning the uncharacteristic mess covering the surface of his desk, Boyd scowls and shoves papers aside, hunting irritably and unsuccessfully.

“ _Grace_!” The bellow is loud and angry, indicative of his fraying temper and rapidly evaporating patience.

“What?” is the equally irritable demand issued in return as she pauses in his doorway, her expression making it clear that he has interrupted her in some way.

At this precise moment though, he doesn’t particularly care. Not when the ACC is expecting an update from him within the hour. “Where’s the file on the Adams lad? I can’t find it.”

Grace sighs, resting a hand against the frame as she regards him, annoyance still visible in her eyes. “That’s because I haven’t given it to you yet.”

“I wanted it yesterday!” he retorts, stacking pages and documents into piles to clear a fraction of usable working space. 

“’ _I want never gets._ ’”

“It does if it signs off on expense reports and holiday requests,” he replies, glancing up again.

Refusing to play, Grace simply shrugs. Stepping through the door to avoid being overheard, she utters a simple, “Fine, go away on your own next month, then.”

“Funny!” he glares. “Report, now!” Then, because it’s her, and _only_ because it’s her, he adds a quieter, “Please.”

“Five minutes,” she tells him. “I’m just on my way to the ladies.”

“Oh, no! If that’s the case, I want it now.”

Grace scowls, her blues eyes narrowing dangerously as she stands for a moment, deliberating, before disappearing into her own office. She’s gone longer than he expects; several minutes pass before she marches back in, wordlessly drops a closed file squarely on top of the open book he is flicking through, and then marches back out again, pointedly ignoring him.

Intrigued by the set of her shoulders and the sharpness of her gait, Boyd tracks her as she moves across the squadroom, eyes inevitably drawn down to follow the outline of curves concealed by her clothing, his memory taking the pleasure to fill in for him all the intimate details of what lies beneath.

It’s half for show, half in tetchy frustration, her behaviour, and when she disappears through the double doors with a highly uncharacteristic bang of wood on mental, he finds a smirk breaking free to spread across his lips. Shaking his head, he opens the folder before him and finds a Post It note sitting squarely in the middle of the first page; three inches by three inches, it’s a soft yellow in colour, with Grace’s loopy, messy handwriting scrawled across it.

_Ricardo meeting, 7:30. Sharp._

It’s utterly incongruous – meaningless to anyone else who might come across it. Not so to Boyd. Grace is offering him an olive branch, a chance to make it up to her for the petty squabbling and the large blocks of time they’ve spent apart in the last couple of weeks. Not by choice, admittedly, that lack of contact, but rather the nature of the job, and a series of unfortunate circumstances that have conspired to occur all at once. Still, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t missed waking in the mornings with her warm body curled up against his, or, for that matter, going sleep beside her. Or even…

His eyes focus on the page again, before his mind, his thoughts, betray him. Yes, it’s an olive branch all right, but one with a slight sting to it, for Sharp is not a warning to be on time to the restaurant of her choice. It’s a warning to simply be there.

And why not, he thinks. It’s Friday afternoon, and after he’s dealt with his prickly, impatient superiors the earliest escape he can manage seems justified after the week they’ve had. Take her out, have a nice meal and spend the entire weekend alone together. Definitely.

It’s been a long day – a long week, even. He wants to see her smile, make her laugh. See that wicked twinkle in her eyes when her impish streak blazes bright and his patience frays in an altogether different kind of way.

There are Post It’s in his draw, too. Two kinds, actually; official Metropolitan Police memo slips, complete with crest and contact details, and a stack of the same plain yellow squares that the two of them reserve just for one another. What started as an idle game – sending coded messages to relieve the boredom of a slow, rainy afternoon – has, several years later, transformed itself into a method of private, personal communication hidden in plain sight. 

He prints a neat reply, momentarily smug at the difference in their handwriting, and then tucks the tiny square inside a book of hers before getting to his feet and ambling across to her office, dumping the thick paperback unceremoniously in the middle of her desk.

She’ll get the message, and she will smile, the day’s hostility fading as she deciphers his hidden meaning. And through the glass he will catch her eye, and he will smile, too.


	2. Clock

**Clock**

* * *

Pain like the sawing, serrated edge of a red-hot knife is digging into Boyd’s neck, spreading out and down across his shoulders. It drags at his exhausted mind, his weary body, makes him wonder why the hell he is still doing this year after year, what it is that keeps driving him in the direction he’s spent his entire adult life travelling.

Rain – heavy, fat drops that glitter in the harsh glare of the sullen street lighting – splashes against his skin, his thick coat. Lands in his hair and sinks its icy daggers into his scalp, shocking a tiny scrap of energy back into him. It’s enough – just enough – for him to remember where he left his car, and to growl in irritation at the long walk back to the office to fetch it.

A cold wind whips around him, chilling his already dark mood.

Damn stupid meeting. Budget cuts; his superiors hounding him, criticising his every move. Trying to drag him down, crush him under the pressure. It feels like it, anyway.

It’s obscenely late; far too late to wake Grace, regrettably. There’s nothing he’d like more in the world right now than to hold her, feel the weight of her tucked safely against him. To inhale the familiar, comforting scent of her deep into his brain, his soul. Hear the soft murmur of her voice in his ear.

But she’ll be asleep by now, and he can’t wake her. He just can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.

A walk would be good for him, a chance to sort out some of the thoughts clashing and warring with each other inside his pounding skull. A release of some of the tension the long hours spent inside have created in his muscles and limbs. But facing the elements just isn’t worth it, not tonight. There’s a Tube station nearby, and it’ll have to do.

It’s even colder as he descends, as the escalator rumbles along, dragging him into the depths of London’s underground travel network. The heavy, soggy wool of his winter coat isn’t enough to fight the steadily growing chill, and Boyd stuffs his hands deep into his pockets as he steps onto level ground and heads left, striding down the long tunnel, but a moment later his fingers close around an unfamiliar scrap of paper and he halts, tugging it out and squinting at the little yellow square.

She knew, he thinks. She knew exactly how he would be feeling, and she was ready for it.

There are no words, only an intricate, detailed drawing of a clock. It’s a specific clock – an old-fashioned but simple dial, elegant wooden casing hand-carved by Grace’s great-great-grandfather, worn smooth by years of dusting and polishing as it passed from generation to generation. It sits above her fireplace, and without even thinking about it he can hear the rhythmic, soothingly deep tick that has lulled him to sleep on the sofa in her living room more times than he’d care to admit to. Can almost feel the warmth of her tucked against his chest as they while away a lazy hour or two together there.

It’s still incredibly late, but the clock on the Post-It has one crucial difference from its real life inspiration. It has no hands.

And that tells him everything he needs to know.

There are no words, but he doesn’t need them. _Come home,_ she’s telling him. _No matter how late it is, come home to me._

He doesn’t need to be told twice and within a heartbeat his feet have changed direction, are heading for the other tunnel. Heading for her.

* * *

She doesn’t need to ask him how bad it was. She can see it in him, he knows, and that makes everything about her, about _them_ , all the more special.

There’s no whiskey, but there is tea. It’s not black, but it’s not hippy nonsense either. It’s warm and soothing and surprisingly just what he needs. And from the smile in her eyes she knows that, too.

Grace doesn’t ask questions, and he’s eternally grateful. Instead she tells him about her evening’s research, about the paper she’s presenting next month in Prague. He’s interested – was the one who encouraged her to go, despite how busy they are – but she could tell him anything now and it would still be the best thing he’s heard all day. Her voice is soft, low and infinitely soothing. It’s home.

His eyes close as he listens, sipping slowly, and the next thing he’s aware of are her fingers sliding beneath the collar of his jacket, pushing it aside. He leans forward, helps to shed the fabric, and then her hands are on his shoulders, fingers and thumbs digging into the flesh. The muscles tense, then relax, her touch soothing away the aches, the dulled but still angry pain that has plagued him for hours now.

Boyd groans softly as Grace works her way up his neck, fingers combing gently through his hair, dislodging the raindrops and playing softly across his scalp. Her touch is inordinately gentle, pulling him out of the cloudy haze of frustration the day has wrought. In the background he can just hear the soft tick of the clock emanating from the other room, lulling his senses into a heavy state of relaxation.

Hands stilling on his shoulders, Grace leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We should go to bed,” she murmurs. “It’s late, and we have that meeting with Tomlinson tomorrow.”

He’s hellishly tired and desperate for sleep. So is she, he knows, but even so…

His mug is empty and the table seems a good place to abandon it. Allows him the opportunity to catch her hand as she moves away from him, heading for the door. “Grace…”

It’s easy to tug her into his lap, to wrap his arms around her and stare into the gentle depths of her blue eyes. It’s easier still to drown in her gaze, to lean forward and capture her lips with his own, to forget everything as she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him back. He’s lost almost immediately in the addictive reality that is her touch, her scent, the way her lips and tongue tangle with his own again and again.

It’s easy, too, to fall farther and faster than he intended to, to want everything and more once that first kiss takes hold of his senses.

She met him at the bottom of the stairs wearing only a dressing gown and blindly he reaches for the tie, pulling it apart with slow, easy finesse.

“Peter,” she murmurs, already breathless and dazed, but still somehow thinking. He could change that, he thinks. He _should_ change that. Definitely.

The skin above her collarbone is impossibly soft, and as he pushes more of her robe aside his lips follow the departing fabric, eliciting a soft moan of pleasure from her.

“Tomorrow – ” she gasps, head falling back as he continues to explore.

“Today,” he corrects, aware of the time broadcast by the kitchen clock, but no longer the slightest bit bothered by the creeping hands, by the lateness of the hour. Instead he nips lightly at the base of her neck, lips and tongue forging a trail upwards even as the fingers of the hand not wrapped around her waist tug at silky fabric, seeking and finding the evocative curves hidden beneath.

Still caught by a streak of reality stubbornly holding on to her, Grace tries once more to remind him of the pressing need for sleep. “The meeting…” But her voice trails away as he finds her jaw, pressing a tiny line of kisses along its length.

“– is not until ten,” Boyd mumbles, currently not in the least bit concerned if he never sees Tomlinson and his cronies ever again. He will feel differently in the morning, he knows, but just at this moment…

Grace shifts against him and he can sense the change in her, feel the way she abandons any thought of practicality and common sense, even before she reaches for the first of his shirt buttons.

It really is far, far too easy to lose himself in her, he thinks, watching the way the look in her eyes changes, the way the fire builds as she concentrates on her task even as her gaze catches and holds his own.

“Bedroom?” she enquires, huskily.

There’s just the one word from her, but it’s the only one needed. He nods slowly, though they stay where they are, locked in the powerful, intimate grip of the unspoken communication they share so well. It adds to the rising anticipation, to the spark of electricity crackling between them just as much, perhaps even more so, than the roaming hands, the steadily more heated and impassioned kisses.

A minute, perhaps two or even three, they remain lost in each other, utterly immobile in the grip of silent words that transmit a depth of emotion that spellbinds them both, but then something she sees triggers a smile that goes straight to his heart, breaks though the trance a little. Enough for him find his voice again and agree with a deep, throaty murmur of, “Bedroom!” as a mischievous grin of his own breaks through.


	3. Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime ago there occurred a conversation between Joodiff and myself - not my fault! - regarding... anatomy. Somehow, and I have absolutely no idea how, that forgotten conversation reappeared as I was merrily - and innocently - working my way through this chapter. I blame Joodiff, who I am sure will be delighted to shoulder such blame.
> 
> So here's to the hilarity of bizarre conversations, the fickleness of the muse, the joy of writing, and to Scription Addict - wishing you a very happy birthday! Hugs :) xx

**Chocolate**

* * *

Happily ensconced in the lab, chatting away over biscuits and cups of mid-morning coffee, and relishing the temporary lack of semi-serious male posturing and squabbling, Grace and her two companions, Eve and Stella, laugh their way through the age-old debate currently on the table between them as they liberate several of the fancy sweet, chocolatey treats each from the packet she’s been saving for a special occasion in the back of her desk drawer.

The blessed silence that descended in the wake of the echoing bang of the doors that heralded the abrupt end of their protracted and overly difficult morning meeting is interrupted by the swish of the automatic doors, causing all of them to turn and look as Boyd enters.

Whether he has sniffed out the biscuit crumbs – as he is often wont to do – or whether he simply returned from wherever it was he went in a fit of shouting and slammed doors when he abruptly swept out of their dungeon after glaring so magnificently at Spencer, and then came looking for them, or her, Grace really doesn’t know. She doesn’t really care, either. The few minutes of peace and laughter and girl talk has been much-needed and thoroughly enjoyable.

What she does know, though, as he starts to fasten his white lab coat and takes a single step closer before pausing, is that he’s tall, handsome, and that, as he stands directly under the harsh beam of the ceiling light closest to the door, the light smirk lurking in the corner of his mouth even as he concentrates on the stubborn buttons beneath his fingers is a welcome replacement for the growling rage of earlier. He’s been under far too much stress just lately, and their last few cases have been particularly harrowing. Perhaps it’s time for her to do a bit of advance research and see if she can sway him towards another, less taxing case after their current one concludes...

_Nice shoulders_ , she thinks idly as he straightens to his full height. She doesn’t need to close her eyes to mentally run her hands over the muscle that she knows perfectly well is hidden away there beneath the fabric of his dark grey shirt, picking out all the details. _Nice shirt_ , she adds, her mind supplying her with the memory of unfastening the buttons on that particular garment on more than one occasion, each of them memorable in their own way. 

She smiles at her own daftness, but hides it behind a mask of mild curiosity. It won’t do for the two women beside her to know of her thoughts. Both of them, and Eve especially, are far too perceptive for their own good. No, what exists between her and Boyd in the shadowy hours of evening darkness, and the blissful freedom of weekends, is most definitely not for the eyes or ears of either of the two overly curious ladies Grace has just been sharing a much-needed good laugh and gossip with.

“Hello, Boyd,” she says, fighting the urge to smile just a little bit more softly at him. She is, after all, still a little miffed about his spectacular – and entirely predictable – loss of his temper earlier, despite the deliberate provocation offered by his exceptionally surly subordinate and second in command.

She really must get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s currently causing Spencer to be so much more quick-tempered and grouchy than usual, she muses briefly, before putting the thought to the back of her mind to deal with later. Spencer isn’t here, after all. But Boyd is, and unless she’s very much mistaken, the subtle but detectable barriers being reinstated by their two colleagues means that, if he is indeed in as good a mood as his smile hints at, Boyd is about to be subjected to the sort of female teasing that all three of them are going to thoroughly enjoy, and he is going to good-naturedly grumble about but yield to. There’s really nothing else for him to do, unless he wants to shatter the peace and tranquillity of their hard-earned morning break by resorting to shouting again, loudly enough to force at least two of them to flee the confines of the laboratory.

“Grace,” he nods, pausing once again to look carefully at all three of them. “Oh, God,” he groans, deliberately theatrical, arms folding across his chest as he considers them with care. “I’ve just walked in on something I really don’t want to know anything about, haven’t I?”

“We’re having the old debate about chocolate,” Grace tells him, watching his expression closely, doing her best to conceal the amusement inside her that so desperately wants to break free.

“What about it?” he asks, suspicion clearly written across his face.

“Whether chocolate is better than sex,” Eve explains.

Characteristically very male, Boyd scoffs. “No contest,” he snorts. “Chocolate is good, but it’s not _that_ good!”

“Spoken like a typical man,” smirks Eve.

Boyd pins her with a stare. “Go on then, Doctor Lockhart. What’s your opinion on the matter?”

Eve laughs openly at him as he bristles slightly, and not for the first time Grace wonders just how much the other woman knows, suspects, and has observed regarding their prickly but good-hearted leader and his relationship status. “Well that depends,” she grins, and there is a lot of mischief in her eyes now as well as she looks up at him from the relative safety of the other side of the lab’s primary examination table.

“On?” demands Boyd, the slightest hint of the ominous creeping into his tone.

“The quality of the sex. And the man, of course – or the woman…”

“Also,” Stella pipes up, “it depends on the quality of the chocolate.”

Eve grins evilly. “Oh yes, absolutely. Swiss chocolate, for instance,” she muses, her tone turning dreamy. “Absolutely delicious.”

“No, no,” protests Stella, shaking her head quickly. “Belgian!”

“Hotel Chocolat,” murmurs Eve.

Grace looks at Boyd as the two younger ladies begin to squabble lightly over the merits of their own preferences. Not saying a word, she watches his face. Wonders if he remembers which type of chocolate is _her_ favourite. And what else he might be thinking. His expression is inscrutable, concentrated.

“It’s not just that though, is it?” she adds, bringing them all back onto the topic at hand and effecting a thoughtful expression and tone as she looks at Eve and Stella. They stare back at her, unsure as to where she’s going. “Mood plays a huge part of it,” she points out. “Especially for women.”

Beside her Boyd shifts slightly on his feet, as if he’s not quite convinced he likes the direction this is heading in. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Eve, older and rather more worldly than Stella, catches on to what she means straight away and agrees. “It does.”

“Let’s ignore new relationships, and that first flush of attraction and desire that tends to swamp everything else,” she begins, searching for the best way to explain what she means. “Sex, especially between a long-term couple, is driven by multiple things. I think it’s fair to say, though, that sex can frequently be instigated by one partner with a higher libido than the other – ”

“Often the man, in heterosexual relationships,” Eve adds.

Grace inclines her head, and continues, “Since it’s all much more emotionally complex for women than it is for men – hence orgasm often being much more difficult to achieve for women – it’s no surprise that women, particularly in longer term relationships, are known to acquiesce to sex with their partners even though they are not necessarily emotionally engaged with the act, and thus receive little in the way of… equivalent benefit.”  

“You mean, sex for the sake of it, rather than for pleasure,” says Boyd flatly. He looks… appalled, she thinks. Only for a moment, and only she sees it, she’s sure, and then a mask of thoughtfulness settles in place as he examines her words carefully, absently scratching his beard as he thinks.

He must know what they are talking about, she muses. Surely he must. He was married for a long time, and he’s an intelligent man. There’s no way he’s failed to learn _that_ particular lesson about women during his lifetime.

Unless… unless women in general aren’t what’s bothering him, and –  

Eve shrugs, interrupting her train of thought. “That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? Sometimes you agree just to keep your partner happy, and though it’s pleasant, it’s really not much more than that. And that’s when sex is just sex, and is capable of falling short of being as good as chocolate.”

“So, you’re telling me that women are… what? Talked into sex that they don’t want by their partners, and they agree to it and go ahead with it when they’d rather be eating chocolate instead? You make that sound like… some kind of assault, or slavery.”

Grace knows Boyd well enough to know he doesn’t believe that’s what Eve is insinuating, but she’s still about to protest when Eve beats her to it.

“God, no,” the pathologist declares. “I was engaged for three years to a man called Jacob and the sex we had was generally fantastic, but on occasion I really wasn’t in the mood, or I was tired, or distracted by studying. I went with it for his benefit because I loved him and it made life easier. It worked for me physically, but it didn’t do anything for me emotionally, and that was fine, because it was _my_ choice.”

The reactions to Eve’s little speech are typical, thinks Grace.

“You were engaged?” gapes Stella, awed. “For three _years_?”

“What do you mean, it made life easier?” asks Boyd, suspicion layering his tone again.

Eve looks thoroughly amused. “I was, yes,” she tells Stella, before turning back to their leader. “Every woman knows,” she tells him, with the air of someone who is about to impart one of life’s most well-known secrets, “that their man is much easier to deal with when he’s thoroughly sated than when he’s as randy as they come.”

Grace snorts with laughter. “So true,” she cackles, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Eve.

Boyd scowls at them both – at her in particular – and for a moment Grace thinks he’s about to stalk out and leave them, his pride wounded by their giggles, but he doesn’t. Instead he simply shakes his head in exasperation and directs a long stare her way, his lips pursed and his thoughts hidden deep behind his dark eyes.

“Thanks for that bit of wisdom, Eve,” he finally says, his expression changing to wry, a touch defeated.

“Any time,” she grins, still bubbling with mischief. Then she pauses, that scientifically curious look of hers settling over her face. “If you think about it,” she muses slowly, “sex is pretty damn strange.”

The statement falls into the air like a lead balloon. Boyd stares at her, as though she’s grown a second head. Grace just about resists the urge to laugh at him, and instead makes herself ask, “What do you mean?”

“The mechanics of it – how it actually works. It’s all a bit… weird. Or so I’ve always thought. Maybe that’s just me, though.”

“Oh, no,” Grace assures her. “I agree. It’s definitely very… odd.”

“Mm, yeah.” The pathologist nods, looks glad of the solidarity. “What do you think, Boyd?”

He looks aghast, that’s the only way Grace can think of describing the look on his face.

“I mean,” continues Eve, seemingly unaware of the growing male discomfort opposite her as she speaks, “who on earth thought that putting testicles on the outside was a good idea?”

Grace really, really wants to laugh now, especially at the perceptible widening of Stella’s eyes as Eve continues to rant, and the young DC’s gaze shuttles back and forth between their fearless leader and the woman now mid- mostly one-sided debate.

“Yes, I know there are reasons for it, but the risk with them just dangling there? Surely biology ought to have come up with a better solution?”

“Very true,” Grace agrees, just – and _only_ just – managing to keep a straight face. She should stop this. For Boyd’s sake, she really _should_ stop this. She doesn’t. Watching him – watching his reaction – it’s just too good an opportunity to miss, it really is.

“I mean, for God’s sake,” complains Eve, “the number of times I had to listen to Jacob complaining that he’d accidentally sat on his balls… How does that even happen? I used to say to him, how do you do that when you’ve had them all your life? When they’ve _always been there_? How do you not just automatically adjust as you go about your daily business? He never gave me an answer though, at least not a satisfactory one. Why is that?”

She pauses for a breath, and Grace begins to hope she’s finished. It’s becoming something of a serious struggle not to dissolve into peals of laughter, something she knows will absolutely not be appreciated by the man sitting, and now appearing a touch shell-shocked, beside her.

“It’s just ridiculous,” grumbles Eve, before she rounds on Boyd. “Don’t you think?”

The effect on his already amusing expression is… extremely entertaining, but, feeling a little pity for him, Grace decides that it’s about time to intervene and rescue him. “He’s a man, Eve,” she points out. “He’s never going to agree with you. You know how precious they are about their… equipment.”

Eve sighs, seemingly at the end of her rant. “Very true. What do you think, Stella?”

Stella sighs and shakes her head, clearly still stunned – and amused, if the slight twitch at the corner of her lips means anything at all – by what’s just taken place. “I just want to enjoy life, before… before it’s too late.”

It seems like an abrupt change of direction. “What do you mean?” asks Grace, curious.

Stella looks suddenly uncomfortable. Seems to squirm slightly in her chair. “Well,” she mutters, “you know… things… naturally die down with age, and… I… want to experience them before then. Enjoy myself.”

Boyd stares at her, lip curling in distaste. “You know nothing,” he says, disgusted. “Age is irrelevant.”

Grace simply smiles. “Sex,” she tells Stella, “gets better as you get older. Not worse.”

“Oh _really_ ,” inquires Eve, her smirking laughter barely contained as her eyes flick between Grace and Boyd. “Do enlighten us, Grace…”

She could refuse to answer. She could elegantly and easily turn the conversation in another direction all together – she’s a master of both, after all – but Grace doesn’t. They are both watching her eagerly; Stella with rapt fascination, Eve with a hint of knowing wickedness. Perhaps it is time they both saw her as more than just an older woman with a distinguished career behind her name.

“Men last longer,” she tells them bluntly. Glancing sideways at Boyd, who is nodding in agreement, she continues. “They lose some of that youthful impatience, which means they can go for longer.”

“They need more time to recover, though,” Eve points out.

“True,” nods Grace. “But in my experience, that’s outweighed by the other benefits.” She turns to her right and looks up. “Boyd?”

Surprisingly, he looks calmer now, less ruffled. More thoughtful. At ease. She likes this side of him – his complete confidence and lack of embarrassment. “She’s right,” he agrees, lounging on a stool and propping one elbow on the table, leaning on it. “It’s true, and it is.”

“What else?” asks Stella, her eyes slightly wide at the obscure turn the conversation has taken, but nevertheless caught up in the fascinating lesson.

Grace watches her, curious as to how a woman as intelligent as Stella can seem so naïve on occasion. “My personal favourite,” she tells them, “is the loss of so many of the inhibitions of youth. It makes things… less complicated. It’s easier to focus on the pleasure. Easier to enjoy all of it without worrying.”

Eve nods slowly, her mind clearly ticking away behind her level brown eyes. “That makes a lot of sense,” she agrees.

“As you get older,” Grace explains, for Stella’s benefit, “you become more in tune with your body; you know what you like, and what you don’t; what works for you, and how to communicate that. The awkwardness fades, especially if you have a long-term partner.” The last sentence is something of a gamble, but the potential hidden meanings of it seem to go over Stella’s head, at least. Not so much with Eve, but Grace was expecting that, and returns the half-veiled look of question she gets from the pathologist with an enigmatic gaze of her own, and a sly wink.

Again, the other woman’s eye flicker between her and Boyd, and Grace knows that lack of real confirmation must be driving her mad. Eve is not the type to pry, though, and she will not put her nose where it isn’t wanted. That doesn’t mean Grace is above teasing her, though.

Boyd saves her from having to say another word by adding his own thoughts to the list. “Post-menopause,” he begins, and Grace has to work very, very hard not to show her amusement at the expression on Stella’s face as he speaks easily of the biological functions most men seem to squirm away from, “there’s a big loss of fear.”

Eve chokes, and Boyd’s eyes narrow at her as she clearly struggles to rein in the laughter clawing at her. Grace understands, sort of. It’s not exactly the kind of thing they’d ever expect him to say, but then, they only know the professional Boyd. They’ve never met the quieter, calmer, far more relaxed Boyd who will generally discuss anything and everything with a reasonably open mind, and a lack of embarrassment or censure.

“He’s right,” she tells them both. “It’s a huge relief.”

“You mean,” asks Stella, “because the chance of pregnancy goes away?”

“Absolutely,” nods Grace. “The fear, the monthly anxiety and torment of am-I-sure-I’m-not-pregnant, the stress of remembering and dealing with birth control – it all goes away.”

“No more fucking periods to get in the way, either,” grumbles Boyd, distaste clear on his face. “And none of the crap that goes with them.”

Grace laughs at that, she can’t help it. He’s just so very male sometimes. He’s right again though.

“Definitely,” she agrees. “While getting older is not enjoyable in some ways, I for one do _not_ miss _that_!”

Stella sighs wistfully. “Women really got the short straw with biology,” she murmurs.

“Did they ever,” snorts Eve, offended. Looking up at Boyd, she shakes her head. “You men don’t know how lucky you are,” she informs him bluntly.

One eyebrow rises smoothly as he considers her, and Grace bites her lower lip, wondering where this will go now. Never in a million years would she have imagined this discussion when he walked through the doors and joined them.  

He wants to make a witty retort, wants to keep arguing, she can see it in his eyes, but for some reason entirely of his own, he refrains. Perhaps because he’s seriously outnumbered, and though he can definitely shout the loudest, he can’t possibly hope to equal three angry females if he says the wrong thing. Grace knows him. Knows that he’s very capable of seeing danger and weighing his options, even if he does choose to simply charge at it more times than he should. She also knows that he has a vested interest in not infuriating her, and that after four days apart, he’s likely fairly desperately hoping to find himself in her bed tonight.

She’s definitely hoping to find him there.

“So, back to the original debate then,” Boyd directs. “Sex, or chocolate; which is better?” he looks at Eve, fixing her with a pointed and immovable stare.

Danger averted then, it seems. It could have been very entertaining, Grace thinks, and she would certainly have enjoyed the chance for a debate, but this is probably far safer. Besides, there’s nothing to say she can’t engage him in some sort of argument or discussion later. By herself. About whatever topic she so chooses. _After_ they’ve –

“Sex,” decides Eve.

Stella shakes her head. “Chocolate,” she says, and the twinkle in her eye might just be a hint that she’s trying to subtly wind her boss up. “It’s always good, even when sex isn’t.”

Grace catches her gaze, sees a flash of hidden wickedness, and hides a smirk as the younger woman quickly looks away, face deliberately straight.

Boyd is shaking his head in disgust, even as he turns to look down at her. He folds his arms, but doesn’t say a word.

“Yes?” she asks, deliberately not giving him what he’s expecting.

“Well?”

She’s always enjoyed winding him up. “Well what?”

He glares at her, attempting a forbidding stare. It fails miserably on her, it always has. She smiles sunnily up at him as he enunciates clearly. “Chocolate or sex, Grace?”

She shrugs blithely. “Haven’t you been listening, Boyd?” she asks, shaking her head slowly, knowing it’ll wind him up no end. “It really does depend.”

“On what?”

She debates the wisdom of answering, is almost certain Eve knows exactly what’s going on here. Does that matter though, she wonders? She decides not. “On the man, the sex itself, my mood…”she trails off, leaves it at that.

Boyd shakes his head again, and she’s not quite sure how much of his apparent irritation is feigned. “Why did I ever think I could get a straightforward yes or no answer out of you?” he asks, and though it’s clearly a rhetorical question, Grace answers anyway, wanting the last word.

“I really have no idea. And it wasn’t a yes or no question,” she points out.

The look he gives her in response could peel paint, if he intended it.

She smiles sweetly. “If you haven’t learnt after all these years…”

Laughter echoes throughout the room as three sets of shoulders shake with the harmonious release of amusement.

“Christ,” he growls, scowling. “You women are all the same. Bloody impossible! I’m going. Don’t forget to return to your desks at _some_ point this morning and at least _try_ and attempt to get a bit of work done.”

He stalks out, the very picture of a frustrated, harassed male.

It’s all for show.

And she’s really, truly enjoying the show. Not that she’ll admit it to either of the women beside her, of course. But there’s just something really rather magnificent about him when he’s riled, and if she can keep him there for the rest of the day, without actually pushing him over the edge…

* * *

By the time Grace eventually makes it back to her desk after making a not-so-brief trip upstairs to speak to DC Willow about an ongoing investigation she has been helping with, it’s rather later than she was expecting. Boyd is back at his desk and has his head well down over his laptop, his diary open beside him and a pen tucked behind his ear.

There’s no reason to interrupt him, and if he’s ploughing his way through his workload as quickly and efficiently as the intense expression he’s wearing suggests, then she has absolutely no intention of interrupting him, not when an early completion of his to-do list is as likely to benefit her as she reckons it just might be.

Instead, Grace settles in her own chair and taps in the password to her computer, loading up the search she was working on before the meeting that then dissolved into a much-needed stress-relieving break.  She’s just reaching for the mouse when her fingers encounter something unfamiliar. Looking down, she feels a smile break out at the purple-wrapped treat she finds resting there. So he _did_ remember her favourite brand after all.

Stuck to the table beneath the bar is a plain yellow Post-It note containing the words, “For comparison…”

Chocolate.

She grins to herself, thoroughly satisfied. There is nothing Peter Boyd likes more than a challenge. And not too many things she likes more than subtly reminding him so.

Tonight there will undoubtedly be a slightly earlier end to the working day than she was expecting, followed by a nice dinner, quite possibly at a small, intimate restaurant somewhere not too far away, or maybe even at his home if he’s feeling particularly keen on showing off his skills to her, which, she reflects, he probably will be. Boyd likes cooking, and he likes even more not having to make the journey home after a good meal.

There will be wine, of course, and laughter, and flirtation. Candles, an open fire; music. And then there will be sex, drawn-out and indulgent, a host of hedonistic pleasures to be revelled in and slowly, thoroughly enjoyed, because he is now a man on a mission.

And Grace plans on savouring every single moment of it.

He looks up just as she pops the first square into her mouth; lets it drag across her lower lip, closes her eyes in enjoyment. When she looks through the glass again she sees him swallow, sees the tiny shift of weight in his chair that’s just so, so indicative.

She’s so much naughtier than he is, and Boyd loves it, she knows. He’s a man, and he charges headlong at the possibility of intimacy and sex. She… well, she likes to tease. Revels in the frustration she can see in his eyes as she slowly, delicately nibbles a second square of chocolate, making a good show of thoroughly enjoying it.

He grips the pen in his hand, sweeps his gaze across the squadroom where Stella is sitting with her back to them both, and then silently mouths what he’s planning on doing to her later in revenge. A traitorous shiver works its wonderful way down her spine. Licking her lips slowly and suggestively, Grace smiles back, deliberately provocative, and then winks.  

Sometimes it really is just a question of knowing exactly how to let the anticipation build.


	4. Snowdrop

**Snowdrop**

* * *

It arrives without provocation or reason. It arrives simply because he can, and because he wants to. Perhaps it is a nod to the date, but perhaps it isn’t. Whatever the reasons, they don’t matter.

It is simply there, on her desk when she returns from a quick trip to the ladies’ room, stuck squarely in the centre of her computer monitor where she can’t fail to notice it.

It’s a snowdrop, not a rose; slim, uncomplicated and elegant. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Black lines, drawn smoothly with a fountain pen, the white of the flower emphasized by the starkness of the paper it is etched on; where Boyd found a white Post It she doesn’t know, but it makes the image all the more pretty and she treasures the thought behind it.

The stem and leaves are green, filled in with a coloured biro, and in those sweeping lines she can see the tiny letters hidden there for her eyes only. Letters that most would miss, but he is a master at hiding them in plain sight, in the curves and lines of the drawing, and she is a master at finding them. It’s a game, their game.

_I love you._

Hidden in a snowdrop, not a rose.

Because the snowdrop is her favourite flower.

And though today is _that_ day, neither of them like the enforced tradition.

She looks up, finds him sat at his desk, caught up in paperwork and between meetings and phone calls, one hand raking though his hair, the strands dishevelled and spiky, his face drawn in concentration.

He looks tired, and Grace’s heart squeezes in pity. It’s only Tuesday; the weekend still so far away. She gets to her feet, fingers brushing over the delicate image, her heart swelling that he stopped and took the time… and she collects her mug and heads to the coffee machine and kettle. Two black teas, coloured with milk, and half a sugar for him.

His office door is ajar, but she pushes it closed behind her. The others will think nothing of it, if they return from their outings to find it so. She and Boyd speak in private frequently; it is a normal thing.

The view as she moves towards him is that messy grey hair, the soft spikes a temptation she uncharacteristically gives in to because it’s just them – no one else is around to witness her momentary weakness. He flinches slightly at the unexpected sensation, but then relaxes, leaning into her touch as her fingers glide through the strands, though his head remains bent, the phone clasped to his ear, and his eyes on his daybook as he scrawls notes and continues to ask blunt and specific questions.

He’s Silver Commander for the area tonight, and it sounds like there’s an incident developing. One serious enough to require a Superintendent to coordinate it. She hands him the tea without words, steps back to let him carry on.

Their evening and its quiet, intimate plan is in ruins, she knows, just from the single side of the conversation she can hear, but it’s not a disaster. He’ll be annoyed, feel he has let her down, but he also enjoys these moments. Command – leadership – is his business, and he’s very good at it. The CCU is miniscule compared to what he does when he’s duty superintendent, or silver or gold commander.

She likes to see the thrill of the moment in him; the pressure of time-critical situations and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders that he thrives on and revels in. He’s a born leader, and they both know it.  

The phone call eventually ends, and he’s on his feet quickly, drinking tea even as he strides to one of the cabinets against the wall, opening it and pulling out a heavy-duty black waterproof coat with the Metropolitan Police crest and his name and rank embroidered on the front and a large reflective POLICE badge on the back.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, taking a big gulp of tea before fishing in one of the pockets for a pair of epaulettes that declare what role he’s playing tonight.

Grace holds her hands out, takes the coat from him and fiddles with the delicate buttons that fasten the shoulder pieces in place, allowing him to finish his tea and gather a few items that he needs. “Don’t be,” she replies, and it’s delivered with an easy, affection smile. “It’s not the end of the world, it was just a night in together.”

“Even so,” he sighs, searching his desk drawer for something.

“Peter,” she says, “I’m really not upset by it – these things happen. If you’re that bothered, though, you can cook me dinner tomorrow evening, and then you can carry me upstairs and...” She doesn’t finish the sentence, just holds his gaze at he looks up at her, gives him a temptingly naughty smirk that gets exactly the reaction she was hoping for.

Boyd finishes his tea, licks his lips slowly and then treats her to that heart-stopping grin she adores. “Deal,” he promises her, eyes alight with glee.

The tone shifts again as he tilts his head to one side slightly, his expression changing to one of seriousness and care. “Now tell me you’ll go home soon and spend the evening relaxing.”

Grace shakes her head in amusement, and then looks up at the clock. “I’ll go home at six,” she agrees. “That’ll give me an hour and a half to finish what I’m working on.”

For a moment steady hazel eyes regard her, darkened by the gloom of the bunker. “Okay,” he nods.   
“Six o’clock, I can live with that.” 

“Good, because that’s all you’re getting in the way of compromise.”

He laughs, long and loud and hard, just as she knew he would. Just as she wanted him to. She joins in with him, because it’s easy and honest, and it feels good.

“You’re one of a kind, Grace, you know that?”

“So you tell me,” she shrugs, still playing the game. The smile she gets comes from within, and that makes her heart feel easier. He’ll no doubt be very, very late home, exhausted and having barely eaten, too, but at least he’s leaving with a bit of levity, with a few moments of affection to remind him that not everything is hard and stressful.

Still shaking his head, he gulps the last of his tea and then stands up, takes the coat from her and slips it on. He’s a distinguished, imposing figure in it, and for just a moment she wishes he was a uniformed officer, that she could see him in black and white every day, but that passes as he shoves his mobile phone into his pocket and hunts for his car keys and her thoughts turn in another direction.

Grace can’t draw; was never gifted with that talent. But she can send him a message just as sweet as his. She reaches for his Post It note pad, steals the pen he’s just picked up from between his fingers. Makes five quick strokes of ink on the paper, and then pulls the page free.

Taking his hand, she lifts it to her lips, brushes a delicate kiss to his palm, and then presses the sticky note there.

Sees him read what she has written, watches him decode the message hidden inside the numbers three six and five wrapped inside a heart.

_I love you throughout the year, Peter,_ she’s telling him, _one lost day doesn’t change that._

Boyd looks up at her, smiles softly, appreciatively.

All that is all she – they – need.

He stares at her for a moment, all quiet, gentle tenderness. Stares straight into the heart of her, where everything she hides at work sits waiting for him.

“Come home to me,” she requests, “no matter what time it is.”

He cups her cheek, his palm softly, slowly caressing her skin, his thumb tracing a lazy but deliberate path across her lips.

“I will,” he promises, and then he is gone.


End file.
